For reasons I only partly understand, and am not entirely in a state of regret regarding, I don’t do much poetry anymore. It is a way of remembering that has always taken a lot more out of me than simply being in the right mindset and place at the right time to snap a photo and then let the picture tell the story. But every once in a while a set of circumstances presents itself that makes the writing of a poem unavoidable, like death and taxes, except hopefully with a happier outcome.
Last week, Australian blogfriends Barry and Fiona (whose prompt accounts you can read here and here, along with Brian’s here) took a break from their New York City holiday to visit us in Vermont. It was a thoroughly enjoyable and enriching 38 hours that left me wanting more but at the same time grateful for even this tasty morsel of an opportunity to connect with two creative spirits both witty and wise. I found myself wanting to do justice to the strangely concentrated depth and breadth of this visit in words, (and what better way than poetry?) thereby typically setting myself an impossible task.
Park and Mark
Fortunately, I am not too proud to concede that the poem below tis but a scratch on the surface of the emotions and inspiration left in the wake of this brief encounter and offer it as my friends fly back home and I gaze out my windows at views made better by their having shared them. Thank you, B & F.
Give and Take
Some things take time
like gray clouds that prove doors to blue skies
on the one side of horizon unaccounted for
or overnight snow that lifts hearts
and lowers voices.
Art takes time.
We try to name the things we make
when it’s the naming makes us.
The best answer is a question
black on snow-white stone.
Some things make time
like distant music played
on strong ties stretched between two faraways
that sounds the same when suddenly
Love makes time.
When I was young nothing
had room to grow so none was taken.
Now the world and I are older and wide open.
I feel a poem coming on.
Written in Stone